"correspondences" poems
In a time,
when men were the superheroes,
born in an unconventional location,
a young girl, unknown to the future
she was destined to,
was born with a uniqueness
unfound in all people, a superpower
of empathy
and as she grew,
the world knew
she was imbued
as a living embodiment of legends:
Athena's wisdom,
beauty that surpassed the goddess Aphrodite,
conversational skills that made Hermes envious,
and strength that Hercules
could never attain.
As she approached an age, when her parents would
trust her to be guardian,
her powers manifested.
This incredible child was now a woman.
With the ability to heal those in need: she could expunge
poison that had afflicted a person,
even their hearts,
a God-given gift for those most sacred;
her correspondences exponentially developed,
able to connect in all languages, fueled by her empathetic nature,
this allowed all who interacted with her to trust her for she radiates sincerity.
Now, fully grown, this super-no-
This Wonder Woman had retired her duties
to save the world, not forsake it, but,
to train Wonder Girl, her daughter,
to unlock the latent abilities her mother had passed on to her.
She still looks up at the Higher Power
and realizes her duty to provide
the world justice is not over
but only beginning.
Her holy spirit was not unacknowledged
and was gifted
a bulletproof bracelet,
forged by the most skilled craftsman by direction
of all that is wise and healing.
Given to her to wear
so that nothing could halt her
as she continues
her fate to provide the world a humanity
that could only come from
an intrinsically true
dear heart.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
did you know
that the
self effulgent light
of God it self
is **** shaped
as above so below
the inner revelation
******* above...light woven
*** hole below ...flesh woven
does this not infer
a magical operation
perhaps a hermetic
ritual of adoration
perhaps a puja
to the ****
with ornate
kaleidoscopic mandalas
replete with wrinkles
and folds
emerald toilet bowls
silk *** wipe
with full color florals
to be ingratiated
by **** art prints
and to be fussed over
and judged
by certified *******
clergy
then to cleanse
with fragrant ointments
that it may remain
unsullied by its
birthing labors
voluptuous
smoldering
fecundations
for purities sake
as god remains
free of limitation
it too
must remain
free of its forgetful
tarnished children
i build temple of ****
high above the people
the little *****
do they
even know
where they come from
how they may
devote themselves
to the grandeur
of the solar ****
and its bestowals
of clumpy torpedoes
the catechism
of the solar ****
to know
to adore
to prostrate
to proselytize
the glory of ****
to the
for corners
of the earth
to be faithful
unto it
to be obedient
and present
your *******
for ritual manicures
by the true initiates
the fussy
******* faeries
those who have
the secret knowledge
and remain true
to the lore
and precepts
set forth
of divine correspondences
to fully appreciate
its eminence
its glory
and have no
God before it
that mercy
will follow them
all the days
of there lives*
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree,
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.
What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.
A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.
Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
2.7k
[On my birthday]
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
2.8k
you are a fool, Sophia. As I look up at these city lights, every neon sign seems to advertise you; they all remind me of what I'm missing out on. I pass strangers and hear them whispering your tender mercies: "so?" "fee" "ahhh..." I may be being quite forward so early on in our correspondences, but the theory that you are a scrap of paper that someone would allow to slip through their fingers is ridiculous to me. I say that because even after only meeting you once, by such a fortunate and faithful chance, I wanted to write screenplays, novellas, and entire manuscripts only based on how beautiful your name sounds when I say it. I will be absorbed in everything you admit me to learn about you. I only hope for your amusement when you discover my own scorched trails. I'm stupefied by your compliments, and I will catch every drop of your defrosting heart on my tongue. I felt so stupid but I beamed in pride seeing I could make you blush as pink as the roses on the bush behind you... such a delicate, feminine, sensitive color; white blossoming into red, purity blooming into passion. How I wish I could be the one to awaken a passion in you. I'm terribly sorry if I'm smothering, but you've an expert pen dipped in ink of naivety... in meeting you I crossed the border between respectable me and questionable sanity: the Sophia Line (your kiss would be turpentine, **** anything I used to be to become anything, everything you need from me). Ah... fee so... you've given me a lot to live up to. xo. Josephine.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
by Theodore Roethke
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood—
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.
What’s madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks—is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.
A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is—
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.
Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
Feb 17, 2023
Feb 17, 2023 at 10:43 AM UTC
1.
Dear Penny,
Today I saw two sparrows playing underneath a tree
that is still naked from the winter. They hopped an
chirped and pecked at each other. They had no
worries, no cares in the world. I was envious of
them. I wished to be that free. I need to get away
from this place. It makes me hollow.
Always,
Milo
2.
Dear Penny,
Do you remember that night when we were in San
Tropez? We'd had too much Bordeaux, and found
ourselves laughing at the moon in the middle of the
night. We saw turtles laying eggs in the sand, their
progeny made to wait until being birthed back into
the sea. Why do turtles always do that? Is it
fate? Is it futility? I think it's because of fear.
Always,
Milo
3.
Dear Penny,
I'm sitting in a coffee shop, trying to relax. A man
sitting at the table next to mine has a tattoo of a
clown on his forearm. It is very intricately drawn.
But as I was looking at it, the clown shifted its gaze
and started to laugh at me. It has since stopped
laughing, but no matter how hard I try, I can't get it
to stop staring.
Always,
Milo
4.
Dear Penny,
Let's face it, all hope is dead. Free will has led to
abandonment. Good people go hungry, the troubled
are revered. Love has no bounds, adultery is
standard. Since we have fallen from the pedestal of
the scarred, fear lies in the hands of the just. Who's
to say why we were. We just are, and I'm tired.
Always,
Milo
5.
Dear Penny,
Consider yourself lucky you're not here. The
streets have become a fetid barrage of scrambled
and frantic contemplations. Am I a rogue, in search
of vigilant prosperity? Or does my face just lack a
certain boyish charm? I blame the church and its
benign stance on water purity. Nevermore...
Always,
Milo
6.
Dear Penny,
Please excuse my attitude in previous
correspondences, as I'm sure you noticed an
abrupt change in my demeanor. Sometimes I feel
weak. Sometimes I wonder if thinking is the right
thing to do. To act would be an adventure. But
worry not; the doctors have given me a clean bill of
health. I remain.
Always,
Milo
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
i'd like to send you something,
to your house, if you permit.
it might be something small,
and light enough to fit
inside a standard business envelope,
so i may drop it down the slope,
of the mailbox on my street
avoid the lines at UPS,
all the clutter and the mess,
yes, i think it would be best
if it required just one minute and one stamp
to leave this something for you down the ramp.
if you allow, then i shall wait
check and recheck the current date,
meticulously calculate
the hours til it reaches you.
i'll pray that it arrives intact,
but please forgive me if in fact
you find it's perfect edges cracked
by the shipping and the handling.
or should the weather of the spring
sustain, and should this unforgiving rain
leave drops like kisses in the paper threads
or should the ink have bled,
accept, i beg, my small imperfect gift
allow your gentle hands to sift
through stacks of correspondences,
allow me please, to the suspense
of sending you, by mail a part
of a handled, weather-beaten heart.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
A “mailbox” is
a funny thing.
It used to be a means
of keeping in touch
with the ones that we loved—
a tool for connections
and correspondences.
What do we even have
mailboxes for now?
Stores send out coupons
for us to accumulate
goods now.
Credit card companies
send out reminders
to pay off our debts now.
Everyone’s circulating love,
but of status and wealth now.
We’ve become so consumed
with our phones, with fashion
and greed...
how?
A. I. Myles 19 June, 2o19
@athenaeumthoughts
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.
What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or a winding path? The edge is what I have.
A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.
Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
I do not comprehend you my love
You do not comprehend me.
Distance grows, correspondences cease.
As a sunflower inhales the bars behind which,
Her brown bud blooms in the longing for the Sun.
I do not know you my love,
You do not know me.
And winter like a cat emerges
in the shadows of the green.
Her eyes glow like emeralds
Made from frozen teardrops,
brought by these cold words.
I do not call for you my love,
you do not call for me
While the waterfall dazzles
in its own silvery glee
My metaphors fail to touch you,
though this water
Flowing through my fingertips,
reminds me the touch of your hair.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 9:06 AM UTC
There can be no end
To writing essays
And correspondences
Despite categorical imperatives
To produce an archive
Of the mind is already
Chronologically irrelevant
When erudition is neglected
And ambitions are deflected
Masterful articulations
Of our feelings and emotions
Are often generally equated
With only the most
Outlandish of suggestions
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 9:37 PM UTC